


Shutter

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Muzzles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26351170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: CyberLife shuts Connor up.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 11
Kudos: 90





	Shutter

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Hank shows up to work half an hour after he said he would, which is frankly an improvement—he used to go whole days without showing his face around the precinct. Chris looks up from his desk as Hank stumbles in, nodding in acknowledgement. Hank grunts a, “Hey,” back and keeps moving. He still would’ve rather slept in, but being awake and sober isn’t as painful as it used to be. He’s at least mildly alert. On the way to his desk, he does notice one minor change in the precinct—in _Connor_.

Connor’s sitting rod-straight in his chair, facing the terminal, computer screen whirring through files so fast that they’re all a blur to Hank. The computer’s not interesting anyway. There’s a black strip of fabric, leather-like, around the back of Connor’s head, cutting through his trimmed brown hair. It’s fastened with a silver latch, a tiny fluorescent-blue triangle on the side, indicating android use, and the mechanism might even be a lock, requiring some kind of authorization or override. Hank walks the rest of the way around, pulse quickening with every step. 

Connor looks up at him. Those big brown eyes are wide and beautiful, full of so much _life_ , even though he’s very clearly still an _object_ to the rest of the world. That’s the only explanation for the new equipment on him. In the end, the android revolution hasn’t meant a thing, because Connor’s still leased to the DPD by CyberLife, and evidently, they can still do whatever they want with him. Somehow, Hank doubts Connor willingly muzzled himself. 

For all the times Hank’s joked about Connor being _his poodle_ , he never actually thought about _muzzling_ Connor. But there it is. A thick, glossy mesh over the lower half of Connor’s pretty face, attached to half a dozen straps along his jaw and around his nose, crossing up over his forehead—it’s all so tightly stretched across his pale skin that Hank half expects to see pink bruises around the edges. He has to remind himself that as sweet and innocent as Connor looks, he’s not really _human_ , and hopefully he can’t feel the discomfort and humiliation that would fill any other man tied up like an animal. The muzzle’s so snug that Hank can’t even see the corners of Connor’s mouth, but at least Connor’s expression doesn’t look too desperate. Too distressed. Connor’s sitting the way he always is, hands neatly folded on the desk, that one little brown curl falling out of his otherwise slick hair. He makes a muffled noise that breaks Hank’s heart. Maybe it’s his imagination, but he thinks Connor’s trying to say: _Good morning._

“Connor,” Hank breathes, too stunned to fume right away. “What the _fuck_.”

Connor gives him an imploring look and, when that goes nowhere, turns back to the computer. He glances down, and his fingers fly across the keyboard, typing at the speed of light. Hank gets the hint and hurries to his chair. 

A message window pops up on his screen, obviously from Connor’s terminal, reading, just like Hank thought, _“Good morning, Lieutenant.”_

Hank doesn’t type back. He looks across the small space between them and demands to know, “What the hell is going on?” Connor tilts his head, and Hank clarifies, even though it must be obvious: “Why’re you wearing that? Who did that to you? Did someone...?”

Connor types again. _“Please don’t be alarmed, Hank. Apparently, a complaint’s been lodged against me, and this precaution was recommend while CyberLife examines my current speech patterns.”_

A _complaint_. Against Connor. The best detective they’ve ever had. Hank immediately shoots a glare sideways, but Reed’s desk is currently empty—he’s probably slacking off in the break room and snickering about having ruined Connor’s life. No one else would’ve complained about Connor. Hank’s fingers curl into fists, and he considers saving the rest of the explanation for later so he can beat the shit out of Reed first. 

Another message pops up. _“If it helps, this is actually the better of my two options. They were originally going to remotely deactivate my voice box, but I suggested that a hardware solution might prove better than a software one, in case there really is a bug in my program.”_

“A bug?” Hank reads out, practically snarling. “You’re a friggin’ deviant—you’re supposed to be able to say whatever you want!”

_“Not if I want to be integrated in the human police force, which I do. There are still rules, Hank.”_

Hank wrinkles his nose and absolutely doesn’t accept that. He stares at Connor’s handsome face, half veiled in the absurd contraption—the sort of medieval bondage he wouldn’t even put Sumo in. And Connor’s even better behaved than Sumo is. If Connor were a dog, he’d be the kind that deserved constant petting and extra treats, not a _muzzle_. 

Connor blinks and lowers his eyes, visibly hesitating before adding, _“If you find the view that untenable, I can refrain from coming in to work until this matter’s resolved...”_ Except that would be way worse. The only thing worse than seeing Connor at the mercy of the system would be not seeing Connor at all. 

Hank tries to bite back his fury and grits out instead, “Who put it on you?” It shouldn’t matter, but it does. If he finds out Reed had the privilege of touching Connor so intimately, tying him up and making him _obey_ , Hank’s going to riot. 

But Connor thankfully answers, _“Captain Fowler. Despite his initial reluctance, he did an adequate job.”_ Maybe because of Hank’s wince, Connor adds, _“It was a purely practical experience; there was no advantage taken.”_

Not that there could’ve been. Connor’s strong enough to break them all. Still, it wrenches Hank’s gut to think of _anyone_ muzzling Connor. If it had to be done, he should’ve at least been asked. He swallows and looks aside, scratching the back of his head, not knowing where to go. He can’t work like this. He can’t see Connor sitting there, so soft and sweet, bound and gagged like one of Reed’s sick wet dreams. 

He makes himself keep going and asks, “How’re they gonna fix you, exactly? If they tamper with your personality...”

_“Given Markus’ ongoing negotiations, I hardly doubt CyberLife will risk rearranging my algorithms. I believe they’re only looking for bugs.”_

“Except there aren’t any bugs to find. Reed’s just a dick and found a new way to harass you.”

Connor neither confirms nor denies that it was Reed. He just types, _“I don’t imagine they’ll actually need to find anything. A different resolution is available.”_

“Oh?”

_“As far as I know, there was only one complaint, and it should be easily overruled by the man who is essentially my master.”_ Connor’s gaze flickers across their conjoined desks, piercing into Hank, suddenly _intense_. Hank’s mouth falls halfway open. He’s never tried to _own_ Connor. But they’re definitely the closest. Connor does work with him, _under_ him, and any time Connor actually leaves the precinct for the night, it’s to come to _Hank’s_. Still, the thought of Connor calling him _master_ does things to his body that aren’t appropriate for work. 

_“Well, Lieutenant? Are you amenable? Because I would be much obliged if you would call CyberLife and tell them that you’re perfectly satisfied with your personal RK800 and that you require the use of its mouth.”_

Hank’s hot under his collar. He feels like he’s too old to blush in public, but Connor has him there. Someone walks by in Hank’s peripherals—Reed, going back to sprawl across his desk like an annoying teenager. Hank and Connor both ignore him. 

Hank tries to lighten the moment by joking, “I guess that’s fair—how’re you supposed to analyze evidence now?”

He can see the smile in Connor’s eyes. There’s a lightness to his fingers when he answers. _“Exactly. You need to put things in my mouth and put my tongue to work. I’m sure they’ll understand.”_

“Connor...” Clearly, it’s not Connor’s audio responses that have a problem—it’s his brain. Except Hank’s perfectly okay with the slight sass his partner’s picked up along the way. And suddenly he really wants to know just what Connor said to Reed to prompt this level of a response in the first place. It must’ve been epic. 

Connor starts tapping keys, but Hank reaches over—he can’t take anymore. He drops his hand over Connor’s, curling around the sides, thumb pressing against Connor’s palm and shivering when Connor’s skin peels back. Connor exposes himself for Hank, feeling Hank _raw_ , then leans across desk and hovers there, lashes half lowered, waiting. 

With a sigh, Hank glances around. No one’s looking at them, except Reed, who’s smirking. Hank throws him the finger before quickly leaning over to peck Connor’s lips through the muzzle. It just tastes of plastic, but Connor’s cute noise is worth it. 

As Connor settles back in his seat, Hank gets up and marches for Fowler’s office—that muzzle needs to come off _now._


End file.
